Or ever cease to think upon its wrongs.
And therefore watched he, many days and years,
How he might compass his employer’s ruin,
And yet not risk his fortunes; the last spark
Of holier fire, his love for that fair girl,
That cottage-flower of purity and truth,
Margaret, the sister of his boyhood’s friend—
That spark still smouldered in some inmost nook
Of his sin-darkened bosom, for the fumes
Of thought debased, rose ever, like a smoke,